Hands and Hotel Rooms
by starry19
Summary: " She drew a finger down his cheek, studying the lines there, brought on by years of darkness and stress. She wondered if some of them had been put there by her."


**AN**: This is just an idea that I've had that has recently decided to not leave me alone. Not an episode tag, not speculation, just some missing scene(s) from the beginning of their relationship. I think post Blue Bird stories will probably always be my favorite, and I'm just indulging myself with this.

**Hands and Hotel Rooms**

She found herself wishing that there was a guidebook somewhere that would tell her how they were supposed to behave now. What was the protocol after illegally boarding a plane, confessing feelings, and then kissing in a TSA interrogation room?

Jane had been a little shy after they'd left, but then again, so had she.

He'd hardly touched her since, just the light pressure of his hand on her back, an insubstantial brush of his fingers against hers.

She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting. Still, she wanted more, though she was admittedly afraid to reach for it, despite what the past twelve hours had brought.

They showered in their separate rooms, then met for a very late lunch or very early dinner.

She thought they both looked the same as they always had. Jane's cheeks were flushed, his eyes a little softer, but still, he wore the same blinding smile and messy curls he'd always had.

They both yawned several times throughout their meal, a mark of how trying this last day had been. She wondered when the last time he'd slept was.

Realistically, she should suggest they catch a few hours of sleep. And, since they weren't at the 'sleeping next to each other' stage of their...relationship, that meant separate rooms. Again, rationally, she knew that course was a wise one. But Patrick Jane had just told her he loved her, tears running down his face, and she wasn't willing to give him up just yet.

"I feel like there's something we should be doing," Jane said quietly from across the table, wearing a wry smile. "Something we should be talking about."

Relief flooded her. "I understand," she said. "I guess I'm just not sure where to start."

He reached for her hand, and she shivered as his thumb traced the pulse point in her wrist. "Me either," he admitted. "But I do have an idea." The pull he had on her was almost magnetic, and so fifteen minutes later, she was lying next to him in the bed in his room, a clear foot of space between their bodies.

"Since we're both about dead on our feet," Jane explained, "I figured this was probably a safer place to have a conversation. You know, in case one of us passes out in the middle of a sentence."

She laughed, but then with another yawn, conceded he possibly had a point.

After a moment of silence, she realized she was in bed with Patrick Jane and sucked in a deep breath.

Jane, lying next to her, had his eyes closed.

He was smiling.

He was hers now, and her heart gave a funny beat.

Bravely, she turned onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow to look down at him. Carefully, fingers shaking, she brushed his hair away from his forehead, then let them trail into his scalp, fascinated by how this felt.

She repeated the motion, then stilled, wondering what was going through Jane's mind.

His eyes remained closed. "Don't stop," he murmured.

So she didn't.

Armed with full permission to touch him, she sank both hands into his hair, delighted when he made a little hum of contentment. She drew a finger down his cheek, studying the lines there, brought on by years of darkness and stress. She wondered if some of them had been put there by her.

Her thumb ran over the curve of his bottom lip, and she couldn't resist. She leaned forward, kissed him gently, but pulled away after a brief moment.

He had been so unreachable for so long...

She put both of her hands flat on his chest, ran them down to his waist and back up. Entranced by the hitch in his breathing, she stroked the tanned vee of exposed skin at the base of his throat. She could see his heart pounding, and she was emboldened by it.

One button on his shirt fell away, and then another and another.

She touched the scar on his ribs, the plane of his stomach, remembering with every breath that Patrick Jane was and had always been a man beneath the glamour and the grief he wrapped himself in.

When her lips replaced her fingers, Jane reached for her, hands going to her waist. She kissed a spot just below his navel, and his voice came out in a rasp.

"Teresa," he said, clearly trying to warn her, "if you're tying to test my self-control, I have to tell you that I'm getting very close to my limit."

It wasn't her intention. She was just enjoying being able to have her hands on him. But he _was_ aroused, she realized.

Oh, God. Patrick Jane was aroused because of _her_.

It was powerful, thrilling.

Awash in her newfound influence, she straddled him, reveling in the groan that escaped him. His eyes opened, bright and hot, and under her spell.

She wondered if he was a little stunned. After all, as far as she knew, there had only been one woman in between herself and Angela, and that certainly not been because of any normal set of circumstances.

There was uncertainty in his face, mixed in with his desire, and she instinctively knew that he needed her to take the lead in this.

And so she did.

She pulled off her shirt, gratified at his intake of breath and the feel of his warm hands on her skin.

This could be too fast, too soon, but when he unhooked the clasp of her bra, she thought she would rather die than stop.

The need to be with him completely overrode any thoughts she had of slowing down, making this last as long as possible. All she knew was that he was beneath her, arms open, very willing, and she was very in love.

His fingers clenched in the sheets at his sides, the tendons standing out on his neck. He was fighting for control, eyes squeezed shut, thrusts shallow.

She'd had an open, unguarded Jane for almost a day now, and she certainly wanted that to continue for their first time. He could impress her later.

She grabbed his hands, pulled them to her waist. "Let go," she whispered, leaning over him. "Just let go."

In another second, he'd flipped her to her back, sliding into her again before she realized fully what had happened.

It was almost rough - _he_ was almost rough - and she gloried in it, wrapping her legs around him, nails scratching his back as she cried out, release nearly blinding her in its intensity.

Jane groaned into her neck, breathing uneven, her name on his lips as he finally went still.

She stroked his hair, kissed his damp forehead, dragged the sheet up over both of their cooling bodies.

After a long while, Jane moved, pulling her into his chest, and she snuggled gratefully into his warmth. There was no need to speak - they both knew what this meant.

She fell asleep that way, her head against his heart, blissful exhaustion washing over her.

Thirteen hours later, she woke to a gorgeous sunrise outside the window, and a sleeping, snuggly Patrick Jane beside her, his breaths stirring the hair on the back of her neck.

This was something out of her most private fantasies. Imagining sex with Jane was one thing - she was sure she was one of several hundred women who'd thought about that. But the intimacy of this, of waking up beside him...this was worth more to her.

For the next several minutes, she tried to recall every second of the night more, of finally having the freedom to touch him the way she wanted.

She had no idea what was going to happen next.

But at least she now knew what it was like to be with him.

Jane yawned and stretched before settling against her again, dropping a small kiss on her bare shoulder.

"I was a little afraid this was a dream," he murmured, voice low and scratchy.

She chuckled, lacing their fingers together. "Me, too."

That was true. It seemed so surreal.

He kissed her ear, nuzzled into her neck.

"Mm," she hummed, tilting her head to give him better access. "For the record, can I just tell you that you're an idiot?"

"You can," he agreed easily. "But can I ask why, specifically?"

She turned to face him, smiling to let him know there was no real venom behind her next words. "Because we could have been doing this since I came to Austin. Instead, you had to wait until literally the last minute."

He smirked, eyes sparkling. "Why, Agent Lisbon. Are you suggesting that you would have gotten into bed with me as soon as you saw me again?"

She kissed him. "Well, maybe not as _soon_ as I saw you. We _were_ in an FBI conference room, after all."

He ran a hand through her hair. "Minor detail."

Feeling shy, she pressed closer to him. "I'm glad we're here now," she whispered.

"Me, too," he breathed back, kissing the top of her head.

His lips followed a path down to her temple, her cheek, her neck, lower. Her arms circled around his shoulders, goosebumps rising on her skin as she wondered if round two could possibly be as good as round one.

As it turned out, it wasn't.

It was better.


End file.
